


5 times They Didn’t Meet & 2 Times They Did

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: From the POV of Various Random Characters, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-05-21 14:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6054664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock & John were always supposed to meet and they did, twice in fact.  Once at the beginning and once much, much later.  But then there were all those times in between that they almost met as well. </p><p>This is a look at those times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times They Didn’t Meet & 2 Times They Did

**+1 - The Park**

~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft looked up from where he was floating the sail boat he and his dad had made in the pond to where his brother was licking his sand off of his small hand with a look of curiosity on his face.  He always had that look on his face.  Mummy had said that he was born looking at the world curiously.  Once he registered the hard, tiny grains on his tongue his mouth instantly scrunched up and he tried to wipe them off of his tongue, the only problem being that both of his hands were covered in sand.  Mycroft shook his head slowly.  As much as he loved his little brother, Sherlock was really quite stupid.

He looked back down at his boat and gave it a little push, making sure that the string attached was tied to pole on the side of the lake and looked back up at his brother.  This time he frowned and stood up in case he was needed to save his brother from the potential danger looming behind the unsuspecting boy.  

Coming up behind Sherlock was another boy, quite older than Sherlock but clearly not as old as Mycroft.  He had a head of messy blonde hair and was wearing a rather grubby looking red and white stripped tee-shirt.  The knees on his jeans were torn and the shoe laces on his right foot were completely undone.  In each hand was clutched a toy car or possibly a truck.  It was too hard to tell from this distance.

Mycroft relaxed as the boy stepped past his brother but then tensed again when he stopped and turned around to stare at the smaller boy, sitting under the tree in the sand pit.

Despite only being two, and not overly clever, or maybe because of those reasons, Sherlock could become very emotional and he had already been at the receiving end of taunts and sneering from older children in the past.  Usually from the boys that attended his parents parties and dinners with their own parents.

So for this reason Mycroft watched the boy standing in front of his baby brother with caution.  Sure, Mummy was close by, but she often had more faith in the children who approached her sons and did not see an immediate threat until it was too late.  That and she was prone to idle chatter and gossip with the other mummies, as she was currently doing right now, therefore her entire focus not being on her youngest son.  Judging by the shade of blonde hair and shape of the face the woman Mummy was chatting to was this new boys mummy and neither parent was watching the interaction going on not even ten feet away.

But Mycroft was watching and he was ready to run over and save Sherlock should this boy want to cause any trouble.

Mycroft watched the interaction.  The new boy waved and smiled at his brother.  Sherlock did nothing but look up at the new comer, that look of curiosity taking over his chubby features once more.

The new boy sat down and started pushing his cars around in the sand in between himself and Sherlock.  (Now that his hands were not clasped around them he could clearly see that they were army trucks.)  Sherlock watched the movement of the small plastic vehicles with wrapped interest and the other boy seemed to notice this as he picked up the smaller of the trucks and held it out to Sherlock, saying something to him with a smile on his face.  Mycroft was too far away to hear what it was but the look on both of their faces, one of happiness from the boy and one, now of confusion as he looked at the proffered truck, from Sherlock, and the body language of the boy did not set any alarm bells ringing, so for now Mycroft stayed put.

When Sherlock made no move to take the truck from the boys hand, the boy stretched his arm closer to Sherlock, his fingers unwrapping from the toy so it sat in his palm, open for Sherlock to reach out and take it.  He didn’t.  He just sat and started at the truck in the boys hand and then back up at the boys face.

The boys smile dropped a bit and then his arm loosened, pulling away from Sherlock just a bit as his bottom lip disappeared between his teeth.  He suddenly had a nervous look on his face, but instead of getting up and walking away, like so many other children did when Sherlock did not play back with them he just sat the truck in front of Sherlock and played with the other one he had kept for himself, pushing it in the sand and chatting away animatedly.  At some stage the truck the boy was playing with apparently developed the ability to _'fly'_ and he started swooping it above his head and Mycroft could hear the _zoom-zoom-zooming_ noise the boy was making as his small arm swirled in the air above the two boys.  Sherlocks eyes tracked the path of the flying truck with an intense focus until it landed back on the sand and resumed its normal duties of _driving_ on the ground.  

The boy continued talking and then said something amusing as he suddenly broke out in a giggle that was loud enough to carry clearly to Mycrofts own ears and he found himself smiling at the fact that his brother was smiling over at the boy in front of him.  Mycroft had no idea if he was responding to what the boy had said or done or if he was merely reacting to the sound of laughter, nor did he care.  The boy had made his brother smile, something usually reserved for Mycroft or their parents only.

The two of them continued on, the boy playing and chatting, Sherlock watching both the movement of the truck and the boys face until the boys mummy stood up and called him.

“Come on John.  It’s time to pick your sister up from ballet.”

The boy, _John_ ,  quickly said stood up, grabbed his truck and rushed off towards his mummy, turning as he ran to call out “Goodbye” and wave enthusiastically at Sherlock, almost tripping over in the process, before turning back and catching up to his mummy as they walked out of the park, towards the road.

Mycroft looked from where the boy had disappeared and back to his brother who was staring down at the ground in front of where he sat.  In front of him, in the sand, sat the smaller of the two army trucks, right where the boy had placed it after Sherlock had refused to take it.  Tentatively, Sherlock stretched out his little hand and grasped the truck, holding it up in front of his small body.  He pushed it back and forth in the air and Mycroft could make out his brothers mouth forming the word _zoom_ over and over again as the truck moved in the air.

He was pulled away from studying his brother when Mummy called him.  “Mycroft.  Come on, it is time to go home now.”

Mycroft turned around and quickly pulled his little sail boat in, untying it from the pole and scooping the whole lot up, not caring that his shirt was getting wet.  He ran over to where Mummy was strapping Sherlock into the stroller. 

“What have you got there?” Mummy asked, trying to pluck the small truck from Sherlocks hand.  Sherlock just held tighter, refusing to relinquish his hold on the small toy.

“John” he said, holding the toy close to his chest with one hand and trying to cover it with the other, further stopping any attempts from Mummy, or anyone else, in taking it away from him.

Mummy seemed to not mind that he had the truck, feeling that the tantrum that would follow, taking it away from him wasn’t worth the bother and looked to Mycroft.  

“How did your boat go, dear?” She asked and they started out of the park to go find father, who would obviously be finished work now, so they could go home.

Mycroft realised that he hadn’t actually watched the boat sail at all, after placing it in the water, too wrapped up in his brother and John.  

“Okay” he said, deciding that since it didn’t sink it must have been okay.

“Zoom” said Sherlock and Mycroft looked over the edge of the stroller to see his brother pushing the small army truck through the air once more, confident that no-one was going to try and take it away from him again.

________________________________________________________________________________

**-5 - Orthotics Clinic**

 

Rebecca had never seen anyone so pleased to have a cast put on their arm, but this young man was totally ecstatic at the prospect of having heavy plaster wrapped around his limb.

“Did you see the x-rays mum.  How they showed the bone perfectly, and there it was, the break, clean across” and his finger drew a line, diagonally above his right wrist, indicating where the break had been.  “Both the ulna and the radius, snapped clean.  The doctor said it was a good, clean break and will heal well” he gushed and the receptionist could only think that this kid must be on some pretty awesome pain killers.

“Yes, honey, I was there” his mother replied distractedly, slowly turning the page of one of the magazines that had been left on the small table in the waiting room.

“Did you know I can name all of the bones in the hand?” he said excitedly, either not noticing or not caring that his mother wasn’t overly interested in what her son had to say.  Rebecca didn’t want to be judgemental, as maybe this wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation, but if she had a kid that was this enthused about anything, she would most certainly be paying attention.

“There is the five distal phalanges, four intermediate phalanges, five proximal phalanges, five metacarpals, the hamate, the capitate, the trapezoid, pisiform, triquetrum, lunate and scaphoid” the boy informed his mother, who was not listening, as he pointed to where each bone in his hand would lay.  

Rebecca was, simply put, amazed.  She looked back over his file.

John Watson, 12 years old.  And he could name all the bones in the hand.  And there was his mother, too busy reading a report on Microwave Ovens in Family Circle.

“Thats wonderful, dear.  You are very clever.”

Rebecca wanted to go over and throttle Mrs Watson for sounding so bored about her sons enthusiasm, but John didn’t appear to be fazed whatsoever.  Instead he just kept rattling on.

“And, all the bones in the foot…”

He was cut off by the Orthopedic Technician coming onto the waiting room and calling his name.

With an excited “That’s me” John Watson jumped up out of his chair, and only winced slightly as his arm jostled, before going to follow Gary, the man that was about to apply the cast that the boy was so excited about.  Mrs Watson closed the magazine and stood up to follow her son and Rebecca was left, once again, in silence, to finish filing away old files and setting up appointments for new customers.

Forty-five minutes later the excited babble of John Watson floated down the small corridor and was soon accompanied by the boy himself.  

“This is so cool” he gasped, holding the hand out in front of his face, wriggling the fingers and thumb that was sticking out of the white plaster. “Jo and Toby are going to go _mental_ ” he rushed on and did a slow motion karate chop towards the pot plant next to Rebecca’s desk.

“You can get all your little friends to sign it” Mrs Watson said seeming marginally more interested in her Son’s apparent joy over having a broken arm.  

Rebecca slid the paper work over the desk and Mrs Watson signed it.  

“The bill will be sent out within the week and a follow-up appoint made for six weeks” she told the older woman and then smiled over at John and gave him a smile.  “By witch time I am sure you will be well and truly sick and tired of that cast.”

Rebecca chuckled at the horrified look on John’s face.  “Never” he uttered and then focusing his attention back on his cast he said, “Do you think I could knock Harry out with this?”  Mrs Watson sighed exhaustedly and Rebecca now found herself feeling sorry for the other woman.  John Watson was apparently a bit of a handful.

“Thank you” she muttered and slid the paper work back towards Rebecca and then followed her son, who had taken off out of the clinic, probably to find and render the poor, unsuspecting Harry unconscious. 

A few moments later another harried looking woman walked into the clinic, a small sulking form trailing behind her, holding his left arm, in a temporary splint, against his small body.

“Sherlock Holmes” the woman supplied and Rebecca scrolled down the list until she found the name.  

“If you could just fill these out” she asked handing a clipboard of forms and a pen over to the woman "and just return them when you are done."  

The two of them made their way over to the chairs in the waiting room and Sherlock delicately climbed up on one, trying not to jostle his arm, glaring at his mother when she tried to offer her help.  Once he was on the seat he settled back, his short legs swinging a foot off of the ground.

Mrs Holmes sat next to her son and started on the forms.  “Oh, dear.  Sherlock, is it you or Mikey that is allergic to watermelon?”

Sherlock scoffed.  “It is _Mycroft_ ” (Rebecca didn’t mention the way the younger boy emphasised Mycrofts full name) “because he is fat.”

“Sherlock” his mother warned, quietly.  “You cannot be allergic to something because you are fat and your brother is not fat, and we both know it.”

“Yes he is” the small boy argued stubbornly and Rebecca kept her head down and her grin to herself as she filled out a supply requisition form.

“Just because he is not willowy like yourself does not make him fat.  You are just lashing out at him because he gets to go iceskating tonight and you can’t.”

Sherlock slunk down in his chair and pouted.

“Well, why couldn’t it have been him that broke his arm” and his small form sunk even lower in the chair, to the point that Rebecca was afraid he was going to slide off, onto the grey linoleum beneath him.

“Because” Mrs Holmes said, signing off on the last form and standing back up.  “He is not the one who climbed and then fell out of the pear tree” and without waiting for a retort from her son she turned away from him and brought the forms to the desk.

“Thank you” Rebecca said, taking the forms.  “The technician will be with you shortly.”

Mrs Holmes gave a friendly smile and then returned to her son.  “Sit up properly, dear.  You will end up on the floor if you keep up like that.”

Young Sherlock just defied his mother by sliding even further down so the very tips of his toes could finally scuff the floor.

“Well, don’t come complaining to me when you have a broken leg as well as a broken arm” she said, and picked up the Family Circle magazine that had been abandoned by Mrs Watson earlier on.

At this Sherlock scowled down at his knees and the wriggled up the chair, in the most awkward way possible, until he was almost sitting straight.

His mother just kept reading, a small knowing smile on her lips.

“I bet they don’t set it at a 45º angle” he sulked.

“I’m sure if you ask them nicely they will see what they can do” his mother assured him as she slowly turned the page of the magazine.

The client that was between Sherlock and John came out then and Rebecca gave them the spiel that she gave them all, while not once removing her attention away from the small boy in the chair, hoping to find out why he needed his arm set at a 45º angle.

Sherlock ignored his mother reassurance and continued his sulk.  “How will I be able to hold my violin properly if my arm is not set at the correct angle?” he whined, giving Rebecca her answer.

“I am sure you are worrying about nothing, dear.  It’s not like you always hold the correct posture anyway.”  Again she turned the page slowly, obviously not paying attention to what was on the pages.

Just then Gary came out and called the young boys name.  With as much indifference as John had had in excitement, Sherlock slid off the chair, into a standing position, and waited for his mother to go before him and Rebecca could not get over how two boys, not too far apart in age, could have two completely different reactions to almost identical injuries.

Almost an hour later the boy came silently slinking down the corridor, his mother following.  

“See, you worried about nothing.  It’s a perfect 45º angle” his mother said coming up behind him.

“47” the boy grumbled, refusing to look at his mother.  “You’re a mathematician,  You should know that.”

“Yes, dear, and I also know that a 2 degree difference is not going to make all that much difference, especially with the way you slouch, so perk up.  At least your fingers are free.”

Rebecca slid the paper work over the desk for Mrs Holmes to sign.  

“The bill will be sent out within the week and a follow-up appoint made for six weeks” she informed the woman, who smiled a thanks and left, taking her sons good hand, much to his complete horror, and left the clinic and again, Rebecca found herself boggling over the differences between the two boys that had been in today.

________________________________________________________________________________

**-4 - London Zoo**

 

Fiona liked watching people.  It’s what she did.  Not in that creepy, _I-like-to-watch-you-while-you-sleep_ , sort of watching, but more of the _observing-human-nature_ sort of watching.  It helped to get the creative juices going and acted as inspiration for characters in her books.  Right now she was watching two teenagers, obviously having snuck away from the group of high-schoolers that were here on a school excursion.  

The girl was your typical bitchy, selfish type.  Leggy, perfect blonde hair (fake) and too much make-up for someone whose skin still sprung back into place.  The boy was a bit more down to earth.  His school shirt was untucked, his hair mussed at the back where he ad obviously been rubbing at it and he smiled too genuinely to be a stuck-up prick.  In Fiona’s opinion, he was too good for the likes of her, but who was she to get in the way of young love?

So, instead of pointing out to the boy all the ways he was not going to get lucky, she sat back and observed, like she did, where ever she went, jotting small notes in her recycled paper notebook with a lead pencil, rather than biro.  It just seemed more natural that way, more alive.

The girl was leaning on the wall that separated the humans from the otters, altered school dress barely covering all that really should stay covered, not really paying any attention to anything at all.  Fiona was close enough to hear snippets of their conversation without being so close that she would be noticeable.  

“You know” the boy said, looking out over the enclosure to where the otters were probably scurrying around the logs and rocks that had been put in place.  “When otters go to sleep, they hold hands so they don’t drift away.”  It was meant to have sounded romantic, but apparently the girl didn't see it that way.

Instead, she just shrugged.  “Well, if they are so concerned about drifting then why don’t they just sleep on land?”

The boy obviously didn’t have an answer for this so he just settle against the wall next to her, a good foot and a half gap between them.

“You got any smokes?” the girl asked after a small amount of time and Fiona resisted the eye-roll at the cliche’-ness off it all.  It was clear that the boy didn’t smoke but he would know that she did, so he would have some on him anyway, then she would convince him to have one and wanting to not look uncool he would have one and then choke half to death resulting in her walking away while laughing.

Fiona was about to stand up and leave, to go find someone less predictable when the boy made her stop, just as she shut her book.  

“No, sorry, I don’t smoke.  Need healthy lungs to keep up with rugby training.”  Fiona re-opened her book.

The girl looked at the boy with a look between annoyance and distaste.  “God, Toby said you were cool” she muttered harshly.  “Give John a go, he really, pretty cool” she carried on, doing an impression of a caveman with a grasp on vocabulary.  “I should have known that anyone who wears knitted jumpers is not worth my time.”

Fiona, not one to interrupt in the lives of other, unless danger is imminent, suddenly felt the urge to go over and tip the stupid cow up over the wall, into the otter lake, but again, this boy, this _John_ , surprised her once more.

“Yeah well, he also told me that you were somewhat intelligent” and then he did an impression of the aforementioned caveman.  “Give Becky a go.  She’s really not that air-brained.  I guess he lied to both of us” he finished off, dropping back to his normal tone.

At this Becky spun around, glaring at John.  “How dare you?” She spat, but before she could continue John held up his hand to stop her and with a small laugh he continued to prove his point.

“The other day, despite announcing on an annoyingly regular basis to be a vegetarian, you ate a hotdog, claiming it was all fine because, and I quote, ‘ _Hotdogs aren’t real meat anyway_ ’.”

“Well, they’re not” she cried, clearly getting angry at being mocked, and Fiona couldn’t help but think it was high time it was happening.

“Actually, they are” John shot back.  “It is all the bits and pieces from other meat, minced up and stuffed into a skin once it has been processed so it lasts longer.  It is still animal.”  He practically shouted the last part and a sound of pure frustration clawed it’s way out of her throat and she actually stamped her foot.  

Fiona was shocked.  She had never actually seen someone over the age of five throw a full-on out there tantrum.  She had heard of it of course, but never actually witnessed it.  Until now.

“You know what.  You are actually not worth losing points in biology for.  I’m going to find the rest of the class” and wth that he picked up his back pack and shouldered it, heading off towards the reptile house that the class had disappeared into twenty minutes ago.

“Fucking prick” Becky shouted and then scooped up her own bag and stormed off in the other direction, colliding with another person on the way.  

“Watch it, twerp” she spat, pushing the shorter boy hard enough that he fell to the ground and stormed off.

Instantly, Fiona stood up and went to the boy who was on the ground, sobbing quietly.

“Ignore her” she said calmly, helping the boy to sit up.  “She just recently found out that she is not too clever.”

“Hardly anyone is” the boy snuffled, pushing her hands away and that was when Fiona got a good look at the boy.  He can’t have been older than eleven, maybe not even that old and his dark curls were a tousled mess on top of his head, but his eyes were red and puffy.  He had been crying for a while.

“Are you alright?” she asked as the boy pushed himself up from the ground

“I’m fine” he grumbled, but he didn’t leave.

“Yes, your face and complete lack of observation at where you were going tell me exactly that.”

The boy looked up at Fiona with a scowl, so Fiona scowled back.  This just caused the boy to change his expression over to confusion and Fiona had an idea that no-one had ever treated this boy the way he treated others.

“Shouldn’t you be with your class?” she asked him and he just crossed his arms.

“How do you know I am here with school?” He asked petulantly.

“Well, it is ten o’clock on a Tuesday morning, in November and you are wearing a school uniform.  I’m taking an educated guess here and assuming that there are 25 - 30 other kids that you are currently meant to be with.”

“Twenty-three” he corrected and then followed with “And I don’t want to see any of their stupid faces again.”  The boy glared up at her, practically issuing her to challenge him.

“Let me guess.  They are all below the average intelligence and don’t have a single original thought between them.”

Fiona could have laughed out loud at the expression on the small boys face.

“How did you know that?” he asked, somewhat amazed.

“I used to have the same classmates, I think.  It was terribly droll.  Why don’t you sit with me and you can tell me what they did that made you all puffy eyed.”

At that the boy scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his jumper but walked to the bench where Fionas bag still waited and sat down next to her.

After a minutes silence he spoke.  “They laughed at me because I can’t say…because I said a word wrong.”  Fiona watched the way he miserably stared at his knees while his shoes scuffed back and forth over the pavers as he slowly swung his feet.

“I was just really excited to see them, because I had just, last night, watched a documentary on them and I really wanted to see them.  I didn’t know I was saying it wrong.”

Fiona was curious as to what word this boy, obviously cleverer than his entire class put together, had trouble saying, but she knew that that information was not going to be freely given, especially after his latest treatment, so instead she offered a story of her own.

“Do you want to know something?” She asked and this got the boy to at least look away from his knees as he timidly looked up at her and gave a small but nervous nod.

“I could not say giraffe until I was twelve.”  At this the boy frowned. 

“But giraffe is easy to say” he said and Fiona nodded in agreement.  

“I know” she confirmed.  “Very easy, but when I was quite young, I taught myself to read and because giraffe is spelt with a G i gave it a hard sound instead of a soft sound.”

The boy nodded, as if he understood, and Fiona had no doubt that he did.  “I didn’t have anyone to tell me otherwise and I had no reason to know any different.  We didn’t have a TV when I grew up, so I couldn’t learn about them from that and both of my parents were illiterate and didn’t encourage any difference, therefore I went around thinking it was pronounced Giraffe until I was ten” she explained, giving the G a hard sound, rather than the softer j sound.

“But you said you couldn’t say it until you were twelve” the boy enquired and Fiona nodded.

“Yes, it had been hard-wired to sound like that and to be pronounced like that for ten years.  It took a further two years, and a lot of teasing from my own school mates, before I taught myself to say it correctly.”

The boy sat back against the bench and thought about her words. 

“I can’t say pengwing” he said quietly, as if ashamed of himself.

“Of course you can” Fiona said matter-of-factly and with a frown the boy looked up at her.

“You just said it” she told him and he frowned harder.

“But it wasn’t right” he said, starting to sound frustrated.

“No, it’s not” Fiona confirmed “But you know what you mean, we know what you mean and you know it is wrong, therefore you can work towards learning to say it properly, but to be honest I don’t know why you would want to.  Pengwing is a much better word than penguin.  If I were you, I wouldn’t bother.  If the kids want to tease you, remember that it is because their brains are smaller and slower and less evolved than your own and they cannot handle things that are different as easily as you or I, therefore they lash out, because they don’t know what else to do.  If you want to prove that they don’t bother you, continue to say pengwing, even if you do learn to pronounce it properly.  I would.  It is much more elegant than Giraffe” and again she pronounced the word incorrectly.

“But it is stupid.  My brother always says I’m the stupid one” he sniffed, wiping his face on his sleeve again, probably to make sure there were definitely no tears left on his face.

“Well, if you ask me, your brother sounds like an idiot.”

This comment seemed to perk the boy up somewhat and he leant over and whispered   “I think that too, but Mummy says I am not allowed to say that.”

“That’s because Mummy’s have to act like they love all their children equally” Fiona replied, not listening to the voice that said this was probably not an idea she should be putting in the boy’s head, but the smile he threw at her was worth it.

________________________________________________________________________________

**-3 New Scotland Yard**

 

Jacobs wrote down the details as the young man carefully described them.  He had had his wallet this morning when he went to the shop as he had paid for breakfast at the small cafe’ across from the sports shop and he had most definitely put it back in his pocket.  He had then gone to the grocery store and it was gone.  Apparently, somewhere between Haz Beanz & Budgens, his wallet was lifted from his person.  

“Are you certain that it didn’t fall out along the way” Jacobs asked, trying not to sound bored.  This was his second week in a row on desk.  He now realised that dating the Super's niece wasn’t probably the smartest idea, especially when he had no intentions of moving the ‘ _relationship_ ’ into anything serious.

“I did do a double back” the boy, John Watson according to the name that he gave, told him.  “I even went back into the cafe’ and asked them if they had seen it and into the stores in between to see if anyone had handed it in incase it had fallen out of my pocket.”

“Well, it still could have fallen out and some not completely honest person has just picked it up.  

“Either way” the boy said, only now starting to get frustrated, even though Jacobs had made him go over the information three times already, “If someone does hand it in, can you please let me know.  I’m not expecting the money to still be in it, but it is going to be a pain in the arse having to replace my bank cards and student pass for uni, especially since they are both my only forms of photo ID.”

“Did you go see centre management at the shopping centre?” Jacobs asked as an after thought.

The sergeant watched the young man’s jaw tense as he looked away, only to look back a few seconds, looking marginally calmer.  Jacobs knew that on the other side of the desk, he was clenching his hands but he didn’t particularly care.  He too was frustrated that after all of his training he was having to deal with people who lost their belongings.  Not really what he had signed up for when he decided to become a cop.  It beat traffic duty, he supposed.

“Yes” the man said slowly with a lower than usual voice.  He was obviously trying to stay calm.  “I went to centre management and left them a description of my wallet along with the details of it’s contents and my contact details, just like I am doing now, with you.”

Jacobs looked down at the form before him.  “Right” he started “So you are claiming the loss of one black Herschel Wallet, company insignia on the bottom, front, right hand side.  Contents, bank card, uni pass, library pass, and £280 pounds in notes and an undefinable amount of coins.  It went missing between Haz Beanz cafe' and Budgens grocery store at the  Winchester Road Shopping Centre at approximately 10:45 this morning, 19th  May 1989 , is this correct?”

John nodded and uttered a quiet, yet firm, “Yes.”

Jacobs picked up the form and placed in front of John Watson, along with a pen.  “Please fill in all of your personal details and sign the bottom of the form.  Once you have done that I will give you a receipt of your claim and then it is just a case of waiting for someone to turn it in, but I will be honest with you.  People can’t usually be bothered with this sort of thing.  Chances are someone has dumped your personal cards in a bin and kept everything else they can use.”

The man on the other side of the desk nodded his head in a resigned manner and completed the form, signing off on the bottom.

Jacobs filled out part B of the form, ripped it off and handed it over to John.  “We will contact you if we receive your wallet, but my best advice would be to go cancel your bank cards and get another uni pass as soon as you are able.”

“Right” John said taking the receipt and shoving it into his pocket.  “Thanks” and with that he turned and walked out of the door.

“God, I fucking hate Thursday mornings” Jacobs muttered.  Thursday morning were always like this.  Slow and dull and full of minor incidents.  It was just as he was thinking this that trouble swooped through the door and he didn’t bother hiding the groan at the sight of the posh arrogant shit head that was stalking towards the counter, for the seventh time in three days, with a scowl that was probably meant to be intimidating, but was, to be honest, just annoying.  Bloody public school, that’s all that scowl said.

“Mr Holmes.” Jacobs stood up, because this positioned him higher than the young _boy_ who had just strode up to his desk, placing his hands forcefully on the top.  He was about to tell him to leave before the tirade started, but apparently his mistake had been to take a break from talking while standing up, for as soon as his mouth closed, Holmes’ opened and once that mouth opened it didn’t bloody shut for a long, long time.

“I need to speak to Detective Gregson, right now” the boy demanded.  “It is concerning the ….”

“Yes, the Powers case.  We know.  We all know.  This is what, the seventh time you have been in this week? And it is Detective _Inspector_ Gregson.”  Jacobs cut the boy off before he could really get started, not wanting to deal with this today.

“Whatever” the boy waved away.  “His position is not important.  What is important is the fact that Carl Powers did not just drown last week and I need to speak to Gregson, the man _in charge_ of the case, not just some desk jockey, about a possible motive.”

“Mr Holmes” Jacobs barked.  Normally he didn’t let little posh kids bother him.  It’s who they were.  He had dealt with them often enough in the past to learn to ignore it, but his jibe about his position had hit home, which is what it was probably supposed to do.  “We understand that you think that this _accident_ was a murder, and it is quite endearing that you think yourself some sort of junior detective, but please leave this to the grown ups.  We have had training and we have had all sorts of experts look at all of the small details.  We do not believe there to be any foul play and the case is coming to a close with that outcome.”  Jacobs took some pleasure in the way Holmes’ pale skin got pinker and pinker with every condescending word he spoke down at the boy and the more he saw him get flustered the more patronising his voice became.  “Now, why don’t you go on, off to school where you are probably supposed to be and leave this to the adults.”

“Fine.  I will come back another time, when someone competent is on desk” he growled and then went to leave, only to stop and turn back to Jacobs.

“By the way, I found this on the street a few blocks over.  The owner is probably looking for it, there is quite a bit of cash for a struggling uni student inside” he snapped dropping something small and flat on the desk.  “I assume you are able to find the owner, especially since all of his details are provided for you.  If not, I hear the janitor managed to pass high school, you could ask him for help” and then he turned and left.

Jacobs looked down at the item on the desk in front of him and an unbelievable chuckle left his mouth.  He didn’t need to open it to see that there in front of him was John Watsons wallet.  He picked it up and opened it, looking straight towards the back.  Inside was what looked to be £280.  Jacobs shook his head, reaching for the phone to call the number that Mr Watson had left, not that he expected him to be home, but maybe there was someone who could take a message, or an answering machine.  

As the phone rang he looked towards the door, where the Holmes boy had left, still with an air of arrogance, even though he hadn’t gotten his way, and he had a feeling that he didn’t actually find this wallet, but pick-pocketed it himself.  Not for the money.  No, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t do something as ordinary as that.  He would have lifted this wallet purely for the fun of it.  

Jacobs was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of John Watsons voice informing him that he nor Toby were home right now and asking him to leave a message, which is exactly what he did.

________________________________________________________________________________

**-2 The Fox & Owl Pub**

 

“Annnnn d’you know ‘oo go’ nin’y sven p’cent” the young man at the other end bar slurred happily for at least the sixth time that night.

“John Watson” the barman mouthed along with the rest of the party, smiling as the small crowd around the apparent receiver of 97% cheered and slapped him on the back.  Apparently he had done well on his finals and wanted the rest of the world to know it.  

‘ _Good on him_ ’ Kyle thought happily as he wiped down the bar once again, after a middle-aged regular, trying to escape married life had accidentally sloshed his cup as he picked up his rum and coke. 

“Tha’s rite…” the man crowed gleefully “…John fuck’n Wasson!”  And with a drunken giggle he picked up his beer and downed the rest of it.

Just then a tall brunette walked through the door, looking around, her gaze stopping on the rowdy group at the end of the bar.

“CLARA” the 97% bloke shouted, lurching himself off of the stool he had been perched on and stumbled over to her in a only way the happily drunk could manage. When he reached her he flung his arms around her curvy frame and pulled her close.

“I got nin’y sven p’cent” his happily told her, a blissful look on his face and Kyle thought that he truely was a lucky bastard if he got to go home with her at the end of the night.

“I know” the woman laughed, elegantly untangling herself from the drunken John Watson.  “You messaged me when you found out.  And around eight more times since then.”

“Hi-yest in m’ class” he proudly announced and she smiled at him fondly and reached over and ruffled his hair.  “I told you you could do it.”

This seemed to spark something in 97%’s memory as he suddenly straightened up and started looking around.  “Whe’s Harry?”

The woman’s fond smile dropped instantly at the mention of Harry and Kyle figured that maybe Mr Watson wasn’t as lucky as he had originally thought.  Kyle didn’t need to be a genius to know that Harry was obviously Clara’s other half.  Watson’s fun demeanour suddenly fled him and a look that was a cross between anger and disappointment fell over his face.

“I’m sorry Johnny.  She was just feeling a bit under the weather.”  If Kyle had a pound for every flimsy excuse he had heard while working this job over the past ten years he would be a millionaire by now.

“Jj-runk ’s more like i’”

At this Clara offered a small smile.  “Like you’re one to talk John Watson.”

If she had hoped this was going to diffuse the situation she had been poorly mistaken.  

“Yeah, bu’ thisss is th’ on’y time th’s week fr me” he slurred angrily and Kyle was starting to wonder if it was time to get Mr Watson’s friends to call him a cab.  “Sh…she sa-ed sh’d be here.”

Kyle watched as Clara’s hand smoothed down the hair she had ruffled just a few moments ago.

“Hey. Barkeep” came a call from his left and he saw an old man leaning over waving a £50 note.  “What’s a man got to do to get a drink around here?”

Kyle plastered a smile on his face and served the man, who took his purchase and grumbled as he shuffled back to his table.  When Kyle turned back to the group at the other end of the bar Clara had disappeared and John was laughing again with a tall man with round spectacles.

“Jo said” John slurred, obliviously happy again, draping himself over bar.  “Jo, he said, he did, tha we sh’d try th’ newww place, y’ kno?”

Spectacles shook his head indicating that, no, he didn’t know at all.

John scrunched his face up in over exaggerated concentration and then suddenly his eyes popped open and his mouth formed a happy O shape as realisation dawned on him.

“STRUTTING ROOSTER” he called out and amazingly didn’t slur, stutter or lisp a single vowel or consonant.  Kyle chuckled at the thought of this lot heading over to the Rooster.

“N’ver herd it” Spectacles, just as drunk as 97%, slurred wth a lazy shoulder shrug.

“Me too” John giggled “Bu’ Jo said th’d be st…st…strippers.  Strippers, Mike!”

If the amount of girls this lot had been ogling since they arrived then the Rooster most certainly did not have the sort of strippers they were after and this just caused Kyle to chuckle even more as he wiped out a glass and placed it in the rack above his head.

A drunken smug look came over not only spectacles face, but also a few other members of the group.

“Th’ Roos’er i’ is then” Mike grinned and the small party made their way out giggling and talking about arses and tits.  

‘N _ope_ ’ Kyle thought shaking his head and chuckling again.  ‘ _Definitely_ not _the sort of club they are expecting.”_

Not even five seconds after the door closed on 97%’s group it opened again and a new group arrived, this one consisting of three people.   A mousy looking girl with light brown hair, a tall gorgeous thing with dark curls and cheekbones and a shorter (though not as short as 97%) tubby looking thing that reminded him of the unpopular nerdy kid at a party.  Excited to be here, even if he was forbidden to talk to anyone.

Cheekbones stalked to a booth and sat down, Tubby excitedly following while the girl walked to the bar.  

“Two Gin and Tonics and a pale ale thanks” she asked quietly, pulling her alarmingly large handbag up on the counter, riffling through it for her purse.  Just as Kyle placed the G & T’s on the bar in front of her Cheekbones joined her, an extremely put out look on his face as he slunk down on the stool so he was at her level.

“Tell me again, why am I here?” he drawled, looking around the bar, not once looking at the girl.

“Because it is my birthday and everyone else was busy and you didn’t want me to be lonely on my birthday so offered to take me out instead” she smiled at him, not that he was looking at her.

“That doesn’t sound like me” he sulked, finally looking at her.  She shrugged.

“It wasn’t.  The real reason is, I had no one to go out with on my birthday because everyone was busy and you have spent too much time in those labs and needed to get away for a bit, but that all sounded depressing, so we will go with my original story.”

Kyle suppressed the grin as he placed the pale ale on the bar next to the other drinks.  He took the payment and expected them to up and join their other friend once she got the change, but instead, Cheekbones picked up a G & T and started drinking.

“Fine.  So, tell me.  Why is _he_ here?”  He didn’t say who _he_ was but Kyle decided it was the tubby kid sitting by himself in the booth.

The girl looked back at the booth and when her attention turned back to Cheekbones the look on her face was sympathetic.  “He heard me talking about tonight and automatically assumed he was invited.  I couldn’t say no.  You didn’t see how excited he was.”

“You’re kindness is your downfall Molly” the man replied, but there was no heat behind his words.  Nor was their any kindness, but the girl, Molly, didn’t seemed fazed at all.  She just picked up the beer, again surprising Kyle, and started sipping it.

“He’s not all that bad” she said quietly, placing the glass back down on the mahogany surface.

“If by not all that bad you mean dreadfully dull and highly irritating, then yes, I suppose you are right.”

Another sympathetic look was shot over her shoulder towards Tubby and she turned back to her glass.  “Well, he is very kind” she offered.

“He is not kind” Cheekbones sighed, irritated.  “He is over eager and in desperate need of attention from those he see’s as being higher in the pecking order than him.  He has little self-esteem and even littler use.  What’s more is that he see’s me as a _nice person_ who might actually make him feel more important, despite me trying to loose him ever since that mongrel of a dog of his bit my bloody ankle.  So, no Molly, he is not kind, he is desperate.”

Kyle wasn’t sure if he should be appalled at how much of an arsehole this guy was or appreciate his honesty, because, face it, it was probably all true.

Molly sighed and took another sip of her beer.  “Well, it isn’t for long.  I just wanted to get out for an hour or so for my birthday.  After another couple of drinks I will let you go home, I promise.”

Cheekbones seemed to consider this and then something seemed to soften his features.

“Fine” he muttered in resignation and drained his drink.  “Another one” he said, holding his empty glass up to Kyle.  “And stop buying.  It is your birthday after all” he said to Molly as he slid a credit card over the bar towards the barman as he placed the fresh drink on the bar.  “Charge the rest to that” he muttered and Molly leaned over with a smile and placed a kiss on his cheek.  

“Come on, Sherlock” she said, much cheerier.  “Lets go and entertain our guest and then we can get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Cheekbones shot Molly a half-hearted glare as she turned and carried her and Tubby’s drink over to the booth and then turned and emptied half of his new drink in one go.

“Keep these coming” he said to Kyle as he picked up his glass and followed Molly over to join Tubby in what could prove to an interesting night indeed.

 

________________________________________________________________________________

**-1  Heathrow Airport**

 

Adam stood by the gate, looking for any suss behaviour, but to be honest it was quite a boring day, which was a rare occurrence indeed.  Not even any unruly children causing a ruckus.  Instead people walked through the metal detectors and went through with no problems, (Every now and then there was someone with a false hip, or someone who forgot to take their keys out of the pocket, but that was all), and then moved to the waiting lounges to await their flights, or perused one of the stores or coffee shops, but not a single person gave cause for concern.  

At the moment he was watching two blokes pace in front of the wall of glass, looking out over the airfield, both of them trying to look relaxed, but both showing signs of nervousness and Adam didn’t blame either of them.  Both of them were dressed in army garb, two green rucksacks tucked neatly out of the way, not far form where they were pacing.  

He had heard one of them mention Afghanistan earlier and did not blame them one little bit for not being 100% excited about boarding their plane.  He had listened to enough on the news to know it was more than a bit fucked up over there, and didn’t envy anyone who had to be there and thought that those who voluntarily went were just plain certifiable.

“You still hung over” the taller one asked as he stopped to rest his head on the cool glass.  The shorter one grinned.

“You’re getting soft in your old age, Murray.”

The taller one nodded against the glass.  “I’m going to have to agree with you there, Watson.  It’s been three days and I still feel like you could use my blood to power a small car.”

At this the one called Watson chuckled.  “It was a good wedding though” he said and again the taller one nodded, slowly straightening up.  “Yeah, Cunnings is a lucky bastard.  Jill is way to good for his ugly arse.”

“You’re just jealous because her sister turned down your advances” Watson threw back, his grin growing wider.

At this the one called Murray frowned at him.  “The only reason you are bringing that up is because she didn’t turn down yours.  No one likes a bragger, Watson.  It’s unbecoming.”

A snort of laughter could be heard from Watson. “Unbecoming?  You’ve been spending too much time with Giles, if you are using terms like that.”

“You’re just jealous because I am more cultured than you.” this earned a chuckle from both of the men and they resumed their pacing again, stopping every now and then to comment on something or someone that Adam knew nothing about, yet he continued to listen to them , while checking in wth the other guards every now and then, the crackle of his walkie-talkie hardly noticeable over the hum and buzz of Heathrow airport.

“God, I can’t believe I spent my R&R here” the one called Watson moaned.  “I could have gone anywhere and I came back here, of all places.”

“So you did catch up with Harry, then?”

Watson snorted.  “Not that she’d fucking remember.  Couldn’t even stay sober for a day while I visited.”

“That’s tough luck, right there mate” Murray replied.  “Do you think she will change?”

Watson shrugged.  “If she doesn’t, she’s going to lose Clara.”

There was silence again and Adam took the break in their dialogue to go and suss out an old couple that were looking odd.  Not suspicious, just odd, purely for something to do.  When he made it back around to the army couple they were talking again.  

“…plans for after this tour?” Murray asked.

Watson shrugged.  “Go on another one, I suppose.  There are plenty of places they need Doctors.  It’s not like I’m not useful.”

“You gotta not get shot first” Murray joked and Adam couldn’t understand how either of them could grin at comments such as that, but then he supposed when there was nothing else to do about it then grinning was the only thing to do, otherwise you would go mad.

“With hair as red as yours, mate, you’d make a more likely target” Watson laughed.

“Yeah, suppose your right.  That and your short arse is harder to spot.”

“Fuck you, twat” Watson replied, but it was said with a laugh.  Murray opened his mouth to retort but then their flight was announced.  

“Well, here’s for it” Watson muttered, picking up his bag and Murray followed suite where the two of them marched off with a comfortable ease, towards the plane that would take them away from cold, rainy London towards war torn Afghanistan.

Adam watched as the two men disappeared into the crowd and relaxed back to the thought that today was going to be a rather boring day when suddenly a loud, agitated voice could be heard over the crowd.

“For god sake Mycroft.  I’m twenty-eight years old.  I don’t need a bloody babysitter, and I most certainly am not obliged to inform you of every single one of my movements.”

Adam looked towards the raised voice to see a rather tall, pissed off man heading in his direction, an equally tall and pissed off man walking beside him.  The first one, clearly younger had a head of messy dark curls and wore a basic suit.  The other one, red hair neatly combed over, impeccable three piece suite, clutched an umbrella tightly as he said something to the other man, too low for Adam to hear.  

Whatever it was it caused the other man to stop and glare at the older man.  “Do you honestly think that you can constantly make me feel guilty with that.  I am not a child, Mycroft.  I am capable of making my own decisions and dealing with the consequences.”

“Previous actions would dictate otherwise, brother mine” the older man responded, this time loud enough that Adam could hear him.

At this the other man dropped the carry-on bag he was holding and stripped himself of his suite jacket.  “You want proof” he spat, and started unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt sleeves, rolling them up past his elbows.  

“Sherlock, not here” hissed _Mycroft_ looking around, hoping that his, apparent brother, wasn’t making too much of a spectacle, and surprisingly, he wasn’t.  Only a couple of people had stopped to stare at the small domestic happening before them and with the piercing glare that was thrown their way by Mycroft, they soon scuttled away.

“No, no brother” the younger man insisted.  “Please, check for signs of my obvious weakness.  Would you like me to remove my shoes and socks so you can check between my toes as well, because apparently I. Look. High.” 

“Sherlock Holmes, put your jacket back on” the lighter haired man said, with a tone so full of authority, it almost made Adam want to put a jacket on.

The younger man rolled down his sleeves and re-buttoned the cuffs, but he only picked up his jacket and slung it over the arm that was once again carrying his bag.

“You were not worried about my relapse, Mycroft.  You are just pissed off that I manage to leave the country without you realising it.  Tell me, how long did it take for you to realise that it was gone.  Two days, three?”  

Not because he was worried, but because he was bored and curious, Adam followed the two men as they continued to bicker and he didn’t miss the smirk that pulled the corners of the younger mans lips up as he looked back at his brother.  “It was the full three days, wasn’t it.”  The smirk grew when Mycroft refused to answer.  “And tell me, dear brother, how long did it take you to trace me to Florida.  I was gone for two weeks, after all, and you didn’t send the calvary over to haul me back.”

Again the younger man looked back at his brother, as they walked along, and his smirk grew into a smile so full of glee.

“Oh, this is precious!  You didn’t know where I was until I was on my way back.  Tell me, who is getting fired over this little fiasco.  Please tell me it is Harris, I can't stand Harris.  He is a self-important wanker who suffers from little man syndrome, and I do mean little man.  I was unfortunate enough to walk in on him while…”

“Sherlock, enough about Harris.  You are coming with me and then you are going to see Mummy.  She has been worried sick.”

Sherlock stopped and let out a bone weary sigh.  Mycroft halted, not even three steps away from him.  “Mycroft.  I just got a man sentenced to death for murder and then spent 10 hours on a plane.  I am tired.  I am going back to my flat and going to sleep.”

Adam was fumbling with his walkie-talkie, trying not to look obvious, but the man’s declaration of having someone sentenced to death caused his hand to slip and the device almost fell to the ground.

“So, now that we have provided the security guard with something that has relieved his boredom for at least twenty minutes, can we please leave if I promise to allow your personal chauffeur to deliver me right to my front door.”

Mycroft sighed the sigh of a man who had done this very thing a thousand times.  “Fine, but you are calling her on the way her home.”

“I will text her” the taller man offered, heading off towards the exit with long strides and Adam let them go, not wanting to follow after already being caught out listening in on their conversation.

“No, Sherlock. You will call Mummy and promise to visit her on the weekend.”

“But , Mycroft, if I promise, I will have to do it.” The whiney voice could be heard as they walked away.

The smug “I know” was the last thing that Adam heard form either of the strange brothers.

________________________________________________________________________________

**+2 St. Barts Hospital**

 

 

Mike considered going to the little Italian place up the road for something _substantial_ to eat.  The salad Tricia had supplied him with for lunch was just not doing it.  He sighed.  No.  If she could do it, then he could do it.

He was about to turn around and go back to work when a somewhat familiar figure caught his eye.  Just up ahead, walking towards him, was a man, limping along with a cane, blonde head down, jacket pulled closed.  As the man got closer it dawned on Mike who it was and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“John” he called out, but the man just kept walking, head still down, straight past him.  “John Watson” he tried again, hoping the use of the last name would get his attention and it it did.  The man stopped mid-limp and looked up and around and Mike quickly scurried over to him.

‘ _Bloody Hell_ ’ Mike thought to himself once he got closer.  ‘ _He’s hardly changed a bloody bit_.’

John was depressed and wasn’t that just the saddest thing to ever happen.  John, who had always been so full of life and optimistic.  The life at any party, even when he wasn’t the blind-drunk one.  The man who always got the girl despite not being what his wife would call _Hot_.  And here he was, sitting on a bench in the middle of the park, injured, broken and on the cusp of homelessness.

“I dunno. Maybe you could get a flatshare or something?”

Mike watches as a sarcastic huff of laughter is issued from the man next to him.  “Come on” he says looking down into his coffee cup and then looking up at Mike. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike can’t help the small chuckle that slips out his mouth and Johns look of self loathing turns into one of slight confusion.  “What?” he asks.

Mike looks over to John and gives a somewhat sort of cryptic smile.  “Just that you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John's look of confusion moves into one of curiosity.  “Who was the first?”

It isn’t long before they are walking up the long corridor to where Mike knows they will find the man he is after and he is pleased to see that John Watson seems to have perked up somewhat as he looks around at the still very familiar walls and Mike knows he is remembering their days at uni together.

As they near the door to the lab he notices a tightening in John’s shoulders and he hopes he is not going to make John’s life worse by introducing him to the most difficult man he has ever met.  It is a possibility but Mike is pretty positive that their meeting will be good for John.  It definitively couldn’t do any harm for the other to make more friends, either.

Mike pushed the door to the lab open and entered not at all surprised to see Sherlock Holmes, the very man he was after, sitting on the stool, right where he left him nearly an hour ago.  And now it was time to let the show begin, and begin it did.  In his usual arrogant style Sherlock managed to piss John off with the first three words out of his mouth.  ‘ _Afghanistan or Iraq_?”  John may have looked somewhat a taken back, but there was also an underlying simmering of anger.  That anger was focused on Mike when he thought Mike had been discussing him behind his back, but Sherlock, the show off that he is, set the record straight. 

Mike had never met anyone as insecure yet as self confident as Sherlock Holmes, who had automatically assumed that John would be looking at the flat.  In fact, Mike would have placed money on the fact that he had already decided that John Watson would be moving in with him and he would also place money on John not being able to help himself.  As much as John had returned home to London a different man, there were somethings that never changed and John Watson would always be up for a challenge and one doesn’t get more challenging than Sherlock Holmes.

In the normal Holmes fashion (after all - Mike had met the brother) Sherlock swept from the lab, carrying on about riding crops, which he was sure Molly Hooper would fill him in about at a later date and then did something completely unexpected.  He clicked his tongue and winked at John.

With a slightly overwhelmed look John looked to Mike and Mike grinned, already knowing what was going through John’s head. “Yeah” he told John.  “He’s always like that.”

After exchanging phone numbers and promising to catch up at a later date John limped out of the lab and Mike wondered what either of them saw in each other.

John is a man who is very tolerable but at the same time will not put up with unnecessary shit from people and Sherlock, well he just doesn’t tolerate anyone, but as soon as John had said no -one would want to share a flat with him, back at the park, he had had a sudden feeling that the two of them were perfect for each other.  

They both needed something, someone in their lives, even if it was someone to share a living space, and Mike was 90% certain that each man was exactly what the other one needed.  

After that little display, he was 100% sure.  They could thank him later.

_______________________________________________________________________________


End file.
